


Tenderly, breathlessly

by El Staplador (elstaplador)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Age Difference, Coaching, F/F, Hasetsu, Hasetsu ensemble, Summer, tutor/student relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:01:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27174913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elstaplador/pseuds/El%20Staplador
Summary: Mila's at a crossroads in her career. Yakov suggests some coaching in ballet. Victor suggests Okukawa Minako. Mila thinks it might be a lost cause, but she might just be surprised.
Relationships: Mila Babicheva/Okukawa Minako
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10
Collections: Rare Ships!!! on BINGO 2020





	Tenderly, breathlessly

‘You might take some study in ballet,’ Yakov said.

He was speaking kindly, and Mila almost couldn’t bear it. He’d used the same tone six years ago, telling her that her knee was healing badly, that she was going to have to sit out the season or risk never skating again. At least this time he hadn’t told her what she already knew: that the teenagers were beating her. That she was over.

He added, ‘Not with my ex-wife, though.’

‘I’m sure Lilia Vassilyevna has quite enough to think about with Yura,’ Mila said. She stood up and said her goodbyes before Yakov could offer any more helpful suggestions. It was rude, she knew; it wasn’t as if Yakov hadn’t seen her cry plenty of times before. But it wasn’t his job to deal with her crying. Particularly not now.

  
An hour later, she was regretting not having let Yakov make any more helpful suggestions. Because she didn’t have any better ideas. And she couldn’t go back. The only thing worse than crying would have been grovelling and then crying.

But who else did she know, besides Yakov? Who did she know who wasn’t already working with Olga or Anna or Ksenia?

The answer was obvious. She took a deep breath, checked the time zone, and called Victor Nikiforov.

  
Victor was delighted to help. He turned out to have studied with Irina Rudnitskaya, who was obviously unapproachable, and would only have been slightly less so had she still been alive. But he had another idea.

‘Come to Japan!’ he said, breezily. ‘Study with Minako-sensei!’

In the background she could hear Yuri Katsuki saying something. He sounded faintly aggrieved.

‘With who?’ she asked.

‘Madame Okukawa... What? Sorry. Minako Okukawa. Yuri used to study with her. She’s very good. And good fun, too.’

‘Do you think she’d take me?’

‘I’m sure she would. I can ask.’

‘Let me think about it,’ Mila said.

  
By the time she’d thought about it, Victor had put all the arrangements in place, or had arranged for someone else to. All Mila had to do was transfer an eye-watering sum of money and catch a plane.

Victor, or Yuri, or perhaps his parents, had arranged for her to be collected from the airport and driven to Hasetsu. It had been a long flight, and she was tired. She dozed off in the car, waking only when the driver turned off the highway and onto the narrow, winding coast road.

Hasetsu was not what she had expected. Peeling paint, boarded-up windows: it was tired. There was no other word for it.

Minako Okukawa, by contrast, was bubbling over with energy. Mila picked her out immediately from the little welcoming committee that was waiting outside the entrance to the Katsuki parents’ establishment. A slim figure, dark hair blowing across her face in the sea breeze, with the self-possessed carriage of a dancer who had, after all, been a worthy recipient of the Benois de la Danse. There, too, were Victor, tall, striking, silver-haired, hand in hand with Yuri Katsuki, and the parents, warm and flurried. Two women and a man of around Victor’s age, and three identical triplet girls who must have been about ten years old.

Victor made the introductions. ‘Your hosts – my in-laws – Katsuki Toshiya, Katsuki Hiroko, and Katsuki Mari. You’ll have private ice time at the local rink. Nishigori Yuuko will explain everything. Nishigori Takeshi will take care of any physical training you need. Axel, Lutz and Loop will, er, discuss your social media requirements with you.’ He glared at them; they giggled, and the middle one tried to hide her phone.

‘First, though,’ Yuri’s mother said in careful English, ‘I will show you where you’re sleeping. And then we will all eat together!’

‘Believe me,’ Victor said, ‘it’s worth coming to Japan for Hiroko-san’s cooking.’

‘Oh, that sounds lovely,’ said Mila, ‘but...’

‘Tomorrow,’ said Minako Okukawa. She glanced at Victor. ‘Tomorrow Victor, or Yuri, can show you the way to my studio, and we’ll begin.’

  
The next morning, Mila ate a solitary breakfast, wondering where Victor and/or Yuri had got to, worrying what Madame Okukawa would think about her turning up at – at the earliest, now – half past ten. Should she have set off by herself? How on earth would she find the way there?

‘Don’t worry,’ Yuri’s mother said, when she understood what the problem was. ‘Minako-senpai is quite used to Yuri being late.’

Mila imagined what Lilia Vassilyevna would have said to a pupil who was so disrespectful as to be... how late? They hadn’t set a time, after all: things had got a bit rowdy last night, and Mila hadn’t thought to ask. But surely eleven o’clock would be far too late. Lilia Vassilyevna’s lips would thin to a fine line and, without raising her voice, she would make the straggler regret the day they were born. Mila sighed and resigned herself to it. After all, it wasn’t as if it mattered.

She had not quite plumbed the depths of her pit of her despair by the time Yuri turned up. His mother scolded him – for being late, perhaps? Mila didn’t know. When it seemed to be over, he turned to her.

‘I’ve called Minako-sensei,’ he said. ‘She knows we’re on the way.’

She picked up her kit bag. ‘Will she be angry?’

‘Only with me.’ He flushed red.

‘What’s she like to work with?’

‘Exacting. Exhausting. But she can be very, very kind. One night,’ he said, his blush deepening, ‘she stayed up all night to help me with my short program.’

She had to ask, ‘Which one?’

‘ _On Love: Eros_.’

That was encouraging, she thought. ‘Well, I don’t know what it was like before, but that one was really good.’

‘Th-thank you.’ Yuri smiled. He hesitated, and then said, ‘Mila?’

‘Yes?’

‘Don’t give up. I mean, of course you’re not giving up, you wouldn’t be here if you were. But I just mean... Hang on in there. It’s worth it.’

She wasn’t at all sure that she hadn’t given up, but she said, ‘Thank you.’

  
She hadn’t expected to be led to a snack bar. Were they stopping for morning coffee? But no, apparently this was where to find Minako Okukawa.

‘Lyudmila Babicheva! Good morning!’ She waved them both inside and indicated where Mila should put her shoes.

‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ Mila said.

‘Don’t worry about it! Yuri explained everything.’ She looked meaningfully at him until he mumbled an apology and left. She indicated a seat and continued, ‘I’ve been filling the time by looking at some videos of you. You’re always over marked on your programme components score.’

That stung. ‘Thank you for your opinion.’

‘It’s because your technical elements are so good, of course. There’s always a little more of a gap than there should be between...’ She waved her hand, gracefully calling forth a description from the air. ‘Between what you do and how you do it. We can work on that.’

There was surprise lurking just under Mila’s irritation. She hadn’t expected this world-class ballerina to know anything about figure skating. She knew that Okukawa had worked with Yuri Katsuki, of course, but you wouldn’t expect, for example, Lilia Vassilyevna to know about the form of the Japanese ladies singles skaters. In spite of herself, Mila was intrigued.

Something else occurred to her. ‘What do I call you? If you were Russian, I would use your given name and your...’ She reached for but could not remember the English word. ‘Your father’s name. If I were Japanese I guess I’d say Minako-sensei, like Yuri does...’

‘Since we’re speaking English, you might as well call me Minako.’ She raised her eyebrows coolly. Mila couldn’t tell whether this was scandalous informality or a perfectly normal way for one adult to address another. She didn’t like to ask.

‘I’m happy with that. Minako.’ She added, ‘And please, call me Mila. Nobody who knows me calls me Lyudmila.’

‘As the commentators have told us many times. Anyway! That doesn’t matter now. Let’s get to work!’

  
Mila’s dismay returned when she saw the studio. It was as tired as the town: the walls were grubby; the floor marked. One of the mirrors was cracked, and the varnish on the barre had been smoothed away by the hands of countless students, although, she suspected, not many had been there recently.

But Minako seemed oblivious. She showed Mila where to change, and was waiting for her at the barre. There they embarked on a thorough warm-up and class session which left Mila uncomfortably aware that she hadn’t done any sort of proper training since that awful conversation with Yakov. She managed to keep up, her muscles remembering old discipline and warming to a new challenge.

‘Good,’ Minako said at last. ‘There’s a lot that you can work on, of course, but at least there’s something to work with. So. This afternoon.’

‘Yes?’

‘Are you working on any programs at the moment?’

She shook her head, half-ashamed. ‘Yakov Davidovich thought it better for me to have a complete break.’

Minako raised her eyebrows. ‘Well, perhaps. We won’t worry. It might be good for you to work on improving a routine that you know well, after all. What about _Me And My Girl?_ Anyway, now you know the way here! I’ll see you at half-past two.’

  
That was the first week. It was, inevitably, boring, attempting to instil a new kind of strength and flexibility into stubborn limbs, and revisiting stale old programs. Mila bore it patiently, willing to submit to anything that might give her a chance to come back, and intrigued by her new tutor.

There did not seem to be a strand of grey in Minako’s hair. Watching them both in the mirror, Mila wondered if she dyed it, but thought that wasn’t terribly consistent with her visible refusal to give a damn what anyone else thought. If Minako had been going to dye her hair, she would surely have chosen some more startling colour. It was difficult to believe that she was older than Yuri’s plump, bustling, mother. Only the little lines around her eyes betrayed the fact that she was the far side of forty-five.

What was she doing here? She could have kept dancing for another decade at least. So far as Mila knew, there had been no injury. And there was no family. Why choose to fade away into nothing and nowhere?

Minako put out a hand and guided Mila’s elbow into what she must have considered a better position. Mila shivered at the touch. Was this what her own future looked like?

  
On the Friday, Minako met her at the door. ‘Don’t bother changing! Let me look at your shoes... Yes, those will do. We’re going for a walk.’

‘A walk?’

‘Yes, why not? Do you draw?’

Mila was baffled. ‘No. Not since I was a kid.’

‘Good.’ She slung a rucksack over her shoulders. ‘I’ve packed lunch for us. Let’s go.’

  
They walked for a couple of hours, leaving Hasetsu and climbing up into the hills beyond. Mila fretted for a little while about the work that they weren’t doing, and then relaxed into the rhythm of her own footsteps.

Minako led the way to a shady tree, which she seemed to have had in mind all along. She opened her rucksack, spread out a blanket and handed Mila a little folding stool.

‘Now,’ Minako said, ‘I want you to draw.’ She produced a pad of sketching paper, a tin of pencils, and a clipboard. The pencils and the board she passed straight to Mila, but peeled off only one sheet of paper to give her.

‘Draw what?’

‘Whatever you like. The castle, the sea, the woods... Anything. I won’t watch.’ As if to demonstrate her point, Minako lay down on her back and closed her eyes.

Mila went wrong almost immediately: her horizon rose from one side of the paper to the other at an angle of about fifteen degrees. ‘Sorry. May I have another piece of paper?’

‘Here.’ Minako sat up, dug in her bag, separated a piece from the pad and passed it to her.

The next attempt was worse. ‘Sorry.’

‘Here you go.’

She tried again. Her castle looked like nothing on earth. ‘ _Gavno_!’ She held out a hand for more paper.

This time Minako shook her head. ‘No, that’s your lot.’

‘So what do I do now?’

Minako indicated Mila’s three failures with a nod of her head. ‘Make one of those work.’

‘But –’

But Minako had lain down again. She was not asleep, Mila was sure, but it was obvious that she was not to be disturbed.

She hadn’t even given her an eraser! Mila swore again, quietly. Well, there was nothing to be done. She picked the second sheet of paper, more or less at random, and set to work. This thick black line here, the one that had ruined the shape of the hill, that could become a shadow, and when she added in the bridge there, that made it more obvious that the ribbon of white space was the river, and...

After a little while Minako’s breathing became deeper and more regular. She sighed in her sleep and shifted onto her side. Mila glanced down. Minako’s long dark hair had fallen across her face, just skimming the little mole under her left eye. Even asleep, she was graceful. Mila wondered what she had looked like when she danced. Perhaps there were videos... Realising that she was staring, she turned her attention back to her drawing. The trees went wrong. But she could correct them by adding more, further away, and then...

She jumped when Minako said, ‘Now, let’s see what you’ve done.’

Mila covered the paper with her hand. ‘It’s terrible.’

Smiling, Minako shook her head. She laid her warm, dry hand over Mila’s, gripped gently, and lifted them both together. Mila’s heart thumped in anticipation.

It wasn’t that bad, she had to admit. If you were looking at the view, the hills and the ocean and the town, with the castle perched on top, you could see that that was what the drawing was meant to be. It wasn’t exactly going to launch her into a career as an artist, but for the moment she managed not to care about that.

‘Good!’ said Minako. ‘Now, let’s have some lunch.’

  
‘So,’ Mila said, when they had packed up and begun the walk back down the hill, ‘I assume there was a reason for that?’

Minako grinned. ‘Suppose you tell me what it might have been?’

She considered. ‘You wanted me to keep working with the mistakes I’d already made. You didn’t want me to give up. You wanted me to do something that I was bad at so that I could appreciate what I’m good at.’

‘Or perhaps,’ Minako suggested wickedly, ‘I was bored and wanted to get out of the town.’

Mila shaded her eyes and looked down at Hasetsu, its bridges, its glittering river. ‘It looks lovely from up here. So peaceful.’ She didn’t quite manage to keep the surprise out of her voice.

‘Doesn’t it?’ There was something odd in Minako’s tone. Mila turned to look at her. ‘You’re thinking, why does she dig herself down in a hole like this? Why does she teach three hopeless kids and make ends meet by running a snack bar? You’re thinking I’m a – what’s the expression? – a has-been.’

Mila had never heard the term before, but Minako’s tone made the meaning obvious. ‘A has-been. No. I’m thinking that _I’m_ a has-been.’ Anger flared within her, mingled with fear. ‘But what if I had been thinking that? What if I had been thinking, you shouldn’t be here? What if I had been thinking, you deserve so much more?’

Minako sighed. ‘None of us can go on forever. And frankly I don’t see that it’s anyone’s business what a person does after they retire. If you want the honest truth, I’d had enough. I’d had enough of travelling and directors expecting me to sleep with them and always having to be polite. I wanted to go back to a place where I didn’t have to pretend to be someone I wasn’t.’

‘I see,’ Mila said, and didn’t know whether she was humbled or horrified.

  
They drilled deep into summer, and as the weeks went by Mila learned to forget to worry about what was happening with her career, if anything was, and to live from day to day, from minute to minute, from beat to beat.

They worked in the studio, swimming in the thick air, and Mila felt the sweat run down her face, her neck, her spine. She saw moisture glistening on Minako’s top lip, and wanted to lick it away, taste the salt on her tongue. She caught her breath at the realisation, but discovered that she was not surprised.

When Minako came over to her to correct her position, it was all that she could do to maintain her stance, to keep herself from melting into her strong, thin, hands.

‘It’s so hot,’ she complained.

‘Well,’ Minako said, ‘unless you want to wait until September, I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with it.’

Mila didn’t want to wait. That was the trouble.

  
They were working on a free program from three seasons back, a languorous, expressive routine to _Tenderly_. Mila had always had trouble with it, and had never actually skated to it in competition. Minako, however, thought it had potential, and had made Mila resurrect it from memory and old videos.

But if it had been difficult to maintain her distance during class, it was impossible when Minako was beside her, behind her, in front of her, coaxing her into making her movements more supple, more sensual.

She stilled half way through what should have been the step sequence, spun around, put one hand either side of Minako’s waist – she had only been a hand’s breadth away, after all – and stepped closer still.

Minako’s face was absolutely blank; then she exhaled sharply.

Mila, committed now, shut her eyes and kissed Minako on what turned out to be the corner of her mouth. She felt her sigh, and relax, and go tense again. She opened her eyes.

Minako pulled away from her. ‘We can’t do this. I’m too old for you. I’m your _teacher_.’

‘And I’m paying you. That should even things out, shouldn’t it?’

Minako buried her head in her hands. ‘That makes it worse!’

Mila’s face was burning. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have...’

‘I wish I could be sorry you did.’

And Mila wasn’t sorry either.

‘You’re so young,’ Minako said, her tone almost wondering.

‘I’m glad you think so.’ She sounded bitter. She knew it. Apparently she was old enough for her career to be over, but too young for Minako to take her seriously.

‘I should. I’m twice your age.’ She reached out a hand and trailed her forefinger down Mila’s face. Mila stood stock still, suppressing even her breath, existing nowhere but where Minako’s skin touched hers.

Minako reached the point of her chin, and withdrew her hand by a bare centimetre. Mila could feel the ghost of the touch connecting the two of them still; she bowed her head a little so that her cheek lay in the curve of Minako’s hand. She could hear the hitch in Minako’s breathing. It was too much. All at once Mila rushed forward, pressing herself close to Minako, too hot and not hot enough. This time Minako did not pull away, but kissed her and kissed her and kissed her.

Mila was the one who pulled at Minako’s T-shirt, sliding her fingers up her sides, delighted by the gentle give of her skin. Exasperated, Minako moved away just far enough to get the garment up and over her head, dragged it off, and went straight back to kissing, pausing only for long enough to get Mila’s own top off. Leggings, underwear, the tangle of the sports bra – ugh – now she was naked, and Minako wasn’t, and the scrape and softness of cloth against her bare skin was both exciting and frustrating. She would have liked to take things more slowly, but she couldn’t have done anything but divest Minako of everything she was wearing, greedily, impatiently.

And then they were on the floor, sticky with rosin and sweat, barely cushioned by their discarded clothes, doubled in the mirrors. Still Mila was the one driving things forward, and Minako was surprisingly pliant, opening her mouth to take Mila’s probing fingers, spreading her legs for Mila to explore the hot dampness between them with the other hand. She licked across the ridge of Minako’s collarbones; tasted salt, and the floral burst that must have been that morning’s perfume, and was intoxicated by all of it, and by Minako’s muffled gasps, and by the slickness inside her, and by the nip of her teeth. And, most of all, by the sly smile that bloomed on her lips when Mila took her hand away, a look that promised as much as she’d been given, and more. Then Minako pulled Mila up on top of her, urged her into a kneeling position, straddling her waist, and went to work with her thumb, mercilessly teasing, a tiny circular movement that built up a relentless tension, until Mila whimpered and came, dizzied, unanchored, exposed.

  
Everything had changed – everything, except the routine. Minako was adamant that, whatever was going on, it must not detract from Mila’s progress.

Mila wanted to cry with frustration. Her career was over whatever happened: why shouldn’t they spend the summer in bed? But Minako took her responsibility seriously and, after that first time, training was training and sex was sex. Still, there were breaks, and lunchtime, and the half hour after they’d finished before Mila had to walk back to Yu-topia for the evening meal.

This time, they were in Minako’s bedroom. A fan turned the same heavy air over and over. It was too hot to move, too hot to touch each other, except they couldn’t not, and Minako still had her face resting on Mila’s thigh, and the warmth of it was exquisitely uncomfortable.

‘Back to work,’ Minako said, reluctantly.

Mila groaned. ‘I can’t.’

‘But you have to.’

She groaned again, but sat up. ‘ _Tenderly_?’

‘Mm.’ Minako propped herself up on her elbow to glare at Mila, who could only laugh. She leaned forward to kiss her.

‘How about you try it on the ice?’ Minako said at last.

‘What, now?’

‘Assuming that Victor hasn’t filled Ice Castle with his summer camp kids, of course.’

The thought of the chill of the ice was persuasive. ‘Let’s see.’

  
Earlier in the summer, Mila would have resented the summer camp kids and their obvious interest in her, their phones and their whispers and their misplaced adulation. As it was, she was pleased to see them, and yet more pleased to discover that they were all coming off the ice rather than going onto it. They’d made a real mess of the ice, but she didn’t want to wait for the Zamboni to make its round, so she just laced up her boots and went straight out.

She had thought that taking it to the ice would make things simpler, would let her pin it all down; but her early morning figures and circuits were nothing compared to what _Tenderly_ had become. The music suffused the cool air; she sped from end to end of the ice chasing the breeze that she created with her own movement. _Tenderly_. There was space here. She could take up the whole rink, and, she found, she needed to. Suddenly, she had more to say. Her jumps were neat and confident; her transitions felt expansive and assured. She threw in a cantilever for the sheer joy of it.

It was, she realised, _good_ , and for the first time she let herself think that perhaps she was getting somewhere.

She heard a wolf-whistle: it was, of course, Victor, who was leaning on the barriers next to Minako.

_He knows_ , she thought, and then, _Well, who cares? Everyone knows why he came here to coach Katsuki._

All he said, however, was, ‘Mila, that was amazing! I knew I was right to tell you to come here!’

Mila was careful not to catch Minako’s eye; she said, ‘Thank you, Victor,’ and skated off on another exultant tour of the ice.

  
The summer slipped away, and Mila knew that it was bound to come to an end, and that there was nothing she could do to stop it.

The last session started with a dutiful half hour of ballet, until Mila said, ‘Really, what’s the point?’ and Minako pressed her up against the mirrored wall and kissed her until she was breathless.

‘The point is,’ she growled, ‘you’re going to rule the world. And you have to work at it.’

‘You think I don’t know I have to work?’ Mila wriggled free and returned obediently, provocatively, to her pliés.

But they stopped early, and ate a lunch that Minako must have prepared specially. They drank to each other’s health in wine from plastic cups, and when Mila spilled hers, sending it sloshing over her hand, Minako licked each finger clean, making her shudder.

One last delicious hour in Minako’s bed, with a brave little breeze setting the blinds flapping. Mila set herself the task of remembering Minako’s taste, the smell, the feel of her skin, the sweet lost sounds she made when she came. She thought that perhaps she was ruining this last time by thinking of it as the last time; she thought that perhaps she should have been concentrating this hard all along, not just for the last time. The last time, the last time... And after a little while she didn’t think at all.

Minako was the first one to bring up Mila’s departure in so many words. ‘Who’s taking you back to the airport?’

‘Yuri.’ Mila was rather glad of it. No matter what Yuri might think or wonder, no matter what Victor had said to him, he’d be too shy to speak of it.

‘I’d have offered, but it’s probably – better not.’ Minako turned her face away. When she looked back, her eyelashes were spiky with tears, and her voice was rough when she said, ‘Come on. Let’s get back to work.’

‘Mm.’ Mila didn’t move.

‘I mean it. What are you waiting for?’

‘My career is over.’ She knew she was being overdramatic, but knew as well that it was true.

‘Oh, no,’ Minako said. ‘The first part of your career, perhaps, but you’ve got a long, long way to go.’

Mila shook her head. ‘You’ve been very patient with me this summer, but we both know this is the end.’

‘Take it from one who’s a lot older than you, and,’ Minako purred, ‘a whole lot more experienced. You’re only just beginning. I’ll be watching the Grands Prix this autumn; I’ll be watching Russian nationals this winter, and then Europeans, and then Worlds, and there you’ll be, owning the ice, skating like an artist as well as an athlete. And maybe I’ll tell myself that you’re thinking of me, and maybe you _will_ be thinking of me. And that won't matter anyway, because you've got competitions to win.’

Mila didn’t believe her, but in that moment that didn’t seem relevant. Minako had the faith in her that she couldn’t find in herself, and maybe, maybe it would be enough. She pulled Minako down to her to kiss her, in gratefulness and regret and hope.

Minako kissed her back, then shifted a little to the side to free Mila. ‘You’ve a life to live,’ she said. ‘Go on. Live it.’


End file.
